


Possession

by Lumeriel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fëanor Lives, Half-Sibling Incest, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27011227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeriel/pseuds/Lumeriel
Summary: After crossing the Helcaraxë, Fingolfin swears fealty once more; but it is Fëanor who clings to that which belongs to him.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Comments: 13
Kudos: 26





	Possession

When the melody of the trumpets spreads over Beleriand like a silver mantle, Fëanor listens. He does not need the  _ palantíri _ or the pull of his blood to know that Fingolfin has not turned back, that it is his anger and stubbornness that dragged the Noldor through the frozen desert of the North.

  
  


The new golden light precedes the advancing host, and Fëanor feels rage burning in his chest when news arrives - absurd news of flowers opening as Fingolfin passes, of fields turning green beneath his feet. When the abandoned in Aman finally arrive, Fëanor is almost surprised that they are so few - so many fewer than those he left asleep on the dark shore.

  
  


Finarfin has gone back, to kneel before Manwë, to sit on a throne that no one can now dispute with him. But Fingolfin is here, eyes sparkling like the ice that has been his home for so long. Fëanor wonders how long it will take for battle to erupt as his half-brother advances alone across the field, ignoring the alert stares, the voice of one of his nephews, the urge to follow that Fingon restrains.

  
  


As he approaches, Fingolfin puts his hand on his sword and Fëanor goes to look for his; but Fingolfin's fingers do not close around the jeweled hilt: with agility, he unties the belt and the sword falls to the ground just before its owner drops at the king's feet.

Petrified, Fëanor watches his half-brother, who extends his hands in surrender and throws his head back to swear allegiance to him with a firm voice, with concise words, with the calm of someone who has made a decision and will follow it to the end.

Fëanor listens to him.  _ And he sees him. _ After so many years, he finally sees him again. As he was. As Fingolfin used to be in a past that will not return -that he did not believe that it would return.

His blood burns with the image. Fingolfin on his knees, swearing loyalty to him as he once swore love. Silver blue eyes confirming the truth of his voice hoarse from cold and pain. 

Fëanor can almost see the tiny mark that the tip of his sword left on Fingolfin's throat before the darkness, and his body roars with the need to touch, to press his fingers against that scar, to press his tongue there and sink his teeth on the neck rope, devouring the pulse. His fingers burn from the need to get tangled in Fingolfin’s black hair and undo braids and pull ... He imagines what Fingolfin would do if he grabbed his neck and forced him to bring his mouth where he needs it most now ...  _ because Fingolfin on his knees has always been his weakness. _

  
  


However, hours later - when camps are set up and silence settles, when princes welcome cousins, lovers and friends, when pardons are tried and losses are listed, when terms of loyalty are agreed - it is not Fingolfin who he is on his knees in the king's bedroom.

  
  


Half-seated on the table, one hand clinging to the wooden edge, his hose untied and mid-hip, the prince bites his dry lips to stifle the moans that pile up in his throat. His other hand is tangled in hair as black as his, not pulling, just seeking support, while the hot mouth skillfully devours his erection.

Fëanor digs his nails into the hard thighs, marking crescents, tracing reddened furrows. With years of experience, he relaxes his throat so that his half-brother's cock goes a little deeper and receives a desperate moan in return. He breathes in the thick aroma of meat and sex on Fingolfin's crotch and becomes intoxicated with the salty taste that begins to spill on his tongue. He digs his nails in again when his cock throbs in his mouth, swelling, overflowing, feeding him.

Fëanor licks slowly, taking the last trace of semen before standing up licking his swollen lips.

Fingolfin leans against him when his half-brother wraps his arms around him, pinning him against the desk. He doesn't move as Fëanor sniffs his neck and slides a hand down his chest, pushing his shirt and doublet aside to brush against a hardened nipple.

Slowly, the king licks Fingolfin's erratic pulse, tastes his sweat, fills his mouth with his scent as a moment ago with his seed. 

At any moment, Fëanor will step back and it will be the only signal that Fingolfin will need to fall to his knees -  now he will - and undress in a hurry the hard sex of his brother and lord, and take it in his mouth with the practice and experience of so many afternoons in Míriel's forgotten rooms. Fingolfin will stop before Fëanor finds liberation between his lips and then, he will undress completely - ignoring the cold, the hardness of the slabs -, he will lie on his back and offer himself like this - exquisite, vulnerable,  **his** . At any moment, they will go back to where they were before the darkness and the fights, and the rancor, and the ambition. At any moment, they will again be the two lovers that know each other so well that even in fire, shadow and ice were never lost. 

But right now, Fëanor just licks his half-brother's pulse and presses against his body, digging his fingers into his back, making sure that at least no one will be able to take this off him. 

**Author's Note:**

> I know: the title sucks; but it was the only thing that occurred to me and this little scene kept me from sleeping.


End file.
